The Replacement
by Emihn
Summary: He was unlike any other before him, and his path would lead where no one had expected. This is his first glimpse of the illusion, his first day of slavery. Smith, one-shot.


_I wrote this about a year ago - my first Matrix fanfic. This is a oneshot fic, butI do intend to write more of the Matrix and pre-Matrix story from Smith's POV. Thus this may later be combined into a larger fic. Anyway, enjoy! -**Emyn**_

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Color bit into his vision like a serrated knife, in unnaturally saturated hues of green, tan and blue. He squinted and blinked, dark lashes flashing over his clear blue eyes in a swift veil. This first view of the city was drowned in the bright sunlight reflecting on the glass and steel of the austere buildings. Slowly, his vision cleared as his eyes adjusted, and he noticed the people. They were a living tide, flowing across the concrete between buildings in a choppy mass. So many different colors and shapes, reflecting individual personalities united in constant busyness. 

And blinding obliviousness.

A slight smile curled his lip and his forehead creased as he gazed up at the tops of the skyscrapers. They reached darkly upward, piercing the sky like defensive spikes at a fortress' edge. It was all so perfectly made, its complexity possessing an intricate beauty. He found himself admiring the work that had gone into making it, how skillfully it had been done. Straightening his dark tie in an unconscious habit, he lowered his eyes back to the people going about their daily business. He was one of them now—in appearance if nothing else—and his duty was to protect them from themselves.

He turned to face the dark glass wall beside him, the sunlight washing down his dark suit and shadowing his shoulder blades in elegant lines. Staring at his reflection, he was almost startled. The tall, broad-shouldered figure he saw was that of an ordinary middle-aged man, unremarkable almost to the point of invisibility. But that had been their intention. Slowly he ran his hand through his receding reddish-brown hair, and traced his thin nose and slightly creased skin. The touch was strange—he knew what he was doing, but he barely felt it. Curious, he touched the glass where the sun was fiercest. He dragged his finger down it in a slow sliding motion, like rain on a black screen. He felt a solid surface, but no heat.

Spinning away from the building, he clenched his fist, making his fingernails dig sharply into his palm. There was no pain—only the knowledge that his fist was closed. Then he nodded as he understood. Of course. They wanted a warrior who would fight despite any wound, so they had given him no sense of pain and a minimal sense of touch. Nothing could be allowed to stand in the way of his performance.

He frowned darkly, the ruthless control of it angering him. He was a weapon, a means to an end, and nothing more. The others before him had been removed when he was finished, and when he got old he too would be replaced. Once the other two like him were completed, they would be connected, with no way for him to escape the near-omniscience of the ones that made him. And every time he touched his own skin or raised a gun and could not feel the steel's coldness, he would remember who was in control.

Some pedestrians walked by him, closer than the rest, and he lowered his head. Their varied scents assailed him in a thick, choking cloud. His lip curled in disgust, yet he almost felt pity for them. It was a shameful life—never knowing the truth of their existence, trapped in an invisible cage.

He was as much of a prisoner as they were.

As this thought occurred to him, his fists tightened and his teeth were set on edge in a harsh grimace. He looked up again, seeing the world around him in a sharply different way.

He hated it.

The ferocity of the emotion wracked his body in a writhing tremor. He hated this system intensely, yet he was its slave, its tool of control. The only way to complete his work and get out was to fight for that very system. It was a contradiction that made him feel both powerless and fiercely determined.

A grey twitch blinked over the city, but the people did not notice. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the second of the three replacements, standing beside and partly behind him.

"What name did they give you?" the newcomer asked, voice flat and emotionless as his expression.

Without turning, he pulled out his sunglasses and slid them on, tormented blue eyes hidden behind the dark brown ovals.

"Smith," he replied, his voice low and neatly measured. "Agent Smith."


End file.
